


Mary Had a Little Lamb

by st1nkf1nger



Category: Repugnant (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Heavy Petting, Making Out, Other, Recreational Drug Use, gratuitous use of the word 'fuck'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:27:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25217005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/st1nkf1nger/pseuds/st1nkf1nger
Summary: Against your better judgement, you've allowed your friend to drag you to a party. Drugs, drinking, and heavy music; what could be better? Almost immediately, you find yourself the lamb to someone's wolf--a mysterious stranger named Bloody Mary.
Relationships: Mary Goore/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27
Collections: The Band Ghost





	Mary Had a Little Lamb

You were never really one for parties, so you aren’t exactly sure how you managed to let your friend, Angel, drag you out one crisp autumn night. 

From what they had said, this party was going to be mostly drinking and smoking weed and playing video games—all things you enjoyed, right? So maybe you would have a good time. You think about the inherent awkwardness of talking to people and the mortifying ordeal of being known, and your stomach clenches in fear. _Ugh_ , maybe not. You make a mental note to do a better job of hiding your melancholy from them the next time they start giving you the _Concerned Face_.

As you approach the run down apartment building in the heart of the city, apprehension gnaws at your gut. For the third time in your five minute walk, you come to a halt, frowning at your companion.

“I don’t know, dude, I-I really shouldn’t—” 

“Ugh, c’mon!” Impatiently, they stomp back to you, latch onto the sleeve of your jacket, and tug you along. “It’ll be fun! I’m sick of you moping around the house!”

“...I wasn’t _moping_ ,” you mumble, stuffing your hands into your pockets and shrugging off their hand from your sleeve. “And besides, do you even _know_ anyone at this party?” 

“Like, one or two people. But it’s a party, you’re not really supposed to _know_ everyone.” They link arms with you, continuing to pull you down the street. “Listen, if we get any _scummy_ vibes, we’ll bounce, okay?”

“Fine.” Huffing out an irritated sigh, you allow yourself to be pulled. 

“There’s supposed to be some _really_ hot guys here, too.” Angel flashes you an excited grin. 

“Yeah, ‘cause hot guys have a history of being into me.”

“Oh, my god, stop that or I’m gonna kick your ass.” They nudge your elbow with theirs and give you another look. The dreaded Concerned Face. You hate it when they do that.

“Okay, okay. Let’s get up there before they drink all the good beer.”

“Hell yea.”

Arm in arm, the two of you make your way to the building, and Angel leans in to press the buzzer. A disgruntled, raspy voice on the other end asks shockingly few questions of the two of you before opening the door. There’s no elevator. You groan as you realize you’ll have to hoof it up five flights of stairs.

You can hear the music pounding from about a floor and a half below, and it only gets louder the closer you get to your destination. When you finally reach the correct floor, you’re gasping and clutching at a stitch in your side and regretting your life choices. _Why the fuck isn’t there an elevator?_

“C’mon, it’s this door,” Angel says, after catching their breath, and they approach a door at the end of the hallway.

The worn wood is absolutely _slathered_ in band stickers and old Halloween decorations and painted-on pentagrams. Though the plaque on the door reads “66”, someone has taken a red marker and added an additional 6 to the end. You give Angel a dubious side eye.

“Listen, these guys are… a little rough. Just give them a chance, though. Most punks and goths are good people.” They give a nervous laugh, grimace, and knock on the door.

After a moment, it opens to reveal a thin youth with multicolored dreadlocks tied in twin tails and a bridge piercing. Arching a perfect brow, she saddles the two of you with an unimpressed eye, and steps back to see if any other partygoers will claim you.

“Who the fuck are these _herbs_?” asks one of them, putting an emphasis on the letter ‘h’ that makes everyone laugh.

You shoot Angel a glare. _Punks and goths are good people, huh?_ They have the decency to look a little chagrined, and rub anxiously at the back of their neck.

“Angel!” shouts a voice, and you vaguely recognize one of Angel’s friends—you’ve never formally met the guy—as he approaches and pulls them into a one armed hug. “Hey, you finally made it! I was wondering when you were gonna get your slow-ass up here.” With the music so loud, they have to lean close and yet still practically shout to be heard.

“You could’ve fucking warned me there was no elevator,” Angel says, playfully shoving his shoulder. “Show me where the drinks are before I change my mind!”

Without another word, the two of them disappear arm in arm deeper into the shabby apartment, leaving you standing in the door awkwardly. The girl at the door eyes you up and down, her expression blatantly judgemental, but merely gestures inside with a grand sweep of her arm. With a polite but nervous smile, you step over the threshold and immediately glue yourself to the wall just inside the door. There are people milling about everywhere, drinking, laughing, making out. 

You’ve never felt more out of place in your entire life. A part of you wants to leave—but you can’t do that to Angel. So you’re stuck there, leaning against the wall and pretending like you don’t exist. 

The music pounding through the stereo lulls momentarily as another song is chosen. 

“Hey there, sweet thing.” A voice, much too close to your ear, makes you jump and you whirl on the spot. “Tell me you ain’t wearing a fuckin’ _Stryper_ t-shirt.”

Leaning his shoulder against the very same wall, the epitome of rough, roguish charm, is a pale, gaunt-looking young man. His dark hair is pulled down in front of his face in a messy devil lock, and there’s long, red lines of blood—hopefully fake—dribbling down from the crown of his head to his chin and onto the front of his sleeveless Candlemass shirt. A wrinkled, hand-rolled cigarette is tucked behind one ear, and the vest he wears rattles with many pins when he moves. You don’t think you’ve ever seen tighter jeans in your _life_. It’s like they were fucking _painted_ on. Are those fishnet tights you spy through the shredded knees?

_Who is this guy?_

As you take in his appearance, eyes wide, he reaches out and gently cups your chin, forcing your eyes back up to his face. He gives you a knowing smirk, eyes hooded, and your whole face feels very warm. 

The music starts up again, but quieter this time—a slow power ballad. You’re distantly aware of people pairing up in the background, but your eyes are focused on his.

“You lost, little lamb?” he says, his voice low, almost a purr. 

“N-No, I came here with my friend.”

With an arch of his thick brows, the bloodied stranger casts an exaggerated look around you, then resettles against the wall with a shrug. “Don’t see you with anyone.”

“...Yeah, they kinda abandoned me.” A brief, rueful smile tugs your lips. 

“That’s okay. I’ll be your friend,” he says, flashing a wicked grin that quickly makes him seem less a friend and more a wolf. 

Is that why he called you ‘lamb’?

“...I don’t even know your name.” But, _fuck,_ do you want to. You can’t remember the last time someone this hot even gave you the time of day.

“I don’t know yours either,” he points out, pulling the cigarette from behind his ear and placing it between his lips. “Names are so fuckin’ superfluous, kitten, but you can call me Mary.”

“Mary?” Your brow furrows. “That’s a strange—” 

As he fishes a lighter from his pocket and brings the flame to the end of the cigarette, he gestures with his free hand to his bloody face. He takes a drag and exhales a plume of smoke, watching you out of the corner of his eye.

“It’s a joke.” A beat. He heaves a sigh, and shoots you a scowl. “Why do I even fuckin’—Bloody Mary, get it?”

“ _Oh._ Y-Yeah.” You’re not quite sure you _do_ get it, really, but he seems to be satisfied with this answer. You change the subject. “So, do you live here?”

“Sometimes, if I feel like it.” He plucks the cigarette from his lips and offers it to you, held delicately between two long fingers. The black polish on his nails is chipped, you notice.

“I don’t smoke.”

Mary smirks. “It ain’t tobacco, lamb.”

“Oh.” Frowning, you look down at the smoldering cigarette and a little bubble of panic rises in your chest. “I-I’ve never uh. Done it. This way before.”

Mary arches a brow.

“Me and my friend, w-we usually put it in brownies.” You feel silly just saying it, and avert your gaze with a grimace.

“Oh, well… you wanna shotgun it?”

You look back up at him, brows furrowed in confusion. “What is that?”

“C’mere.” 

He leans in closer, until his lips are nearly touching yours. For one heart-stopping second, you think he’s going to kiss you, but no—he stops just shy of contact. The tip of his nose brushes featherlight against yours, though, and goosebumps erupt across your skin. His eyes are hooded, and there’s something so sensual and alluring in those dark depths that it makes your stomach do a little somersault.

“I exhale, you inhale, yeah?” His lip quirks into a crooked smile.

You give a slow nod, afraid that if you moved too suddenly he’d bolt like a wild animal. He lifts the joint to his lips, takes a long hit, and holds it for just a moment. His tongue pokes out to wet his lips. When he exhales a cloud of smoke, you inhale too quickly, and the unfamiliar burn of it makes your lungs spasm and you jerk backward with a cough.

Mary gives a rueful laugh and reaches past you to an open ice chest on the kitchen counter. With his free hand, he fishes out a can of beer and cracks it open. It foams and he holds it out at arms’ length with a quiet, disgruntled _ah, fuck_ as suds splatter onto the carpet.

When it finishes spewing, he pushes the damp can into your hands, and you gratefully gulp it down to soothe your burning throat.

“Wanna go again?” he asks, once you’ve recovered enough to speak.

You eye him with apprehension. _Do_ you want to go again? You’re pretty sure another close encounter with Mary might kill you. On the other hand, you’re _craving_ more of that closeness.

“Okay.”

“Cool. This time,” Mary says, and he sidles a step closer, centimeters away from his body making contact with yours. “Don’t suck it into your lungs right away. Into your mouth first, like a milkshake.”

 _Or like something else?_ Your cheeks flush as this filthy thought enters your head. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to notice as he leans in. This time, you’re ready, and though your throat burns again, you manage to cut your coughing time by half. The cold beer helps. Mary reaches around you and extinguishes the roach in a nearby ashtray, then settles back against the wall, his shoulder touching yours. For a moment, the two of you sit in silence as the weed works its magic. It isn’t long before you feel yourself loosening up a little.

“So… is Mary your real name?” you ask, casting him an expectant glance.

Before he can answer, however, both your attentions are diverted. In the living room before you, where most of the party seems to be congregated, a girl is sitting cross-legged on the floor, playing idly with an empty bottle of wine. She leans forward and gives the bottle a spin as she talks, and when it finally comes a stop, the mouth of it points to a taller girl leaning on the wall across from her.

“Ha, now you guys have to make out,” giggles another partygoer.

An nervous titter rises up from the other partiers.

Wordlessly, the girl on the floor gets to her feet, approaches the girl on the wall, and draws her lips downwards in a kiss. Several wolf whistles and appreciative hoots rise up from the crowd, and eventually the two part, looking flushed but grinning. The tall girl leaning against the wall grabs the other girl’s hand, and fishes out a marker to scribble a phone number across her palm.

Mary tilts his head back against the wall he’s leaning on and gives you a curious look out of the corner of his eye. You pretend like you don’t see his gaze linger on your body.

“Someone else spin!” demands a partygoer, and another person grabs the wine bottle.

“What is this, a party of stupid horny teenagers?” snorts someone else, and everyone drowns them out with a chorus of boos. Someone throws a pillow at them and everyone laughs.

“ _You_ wanna play?” asks Mary, his lip curving into a wolfish smirk. “Get someone’s tongue down your throat?”

“W-What?” Eyes widening, you tear your gaze away from the display before you to look him in the face. “No…” _Not unless it’s yours._ Even though you don’t say that last part, you can’t help but glance down at his lips as you think it.

“No?” He turns towards you, leaning now on one shoulder instead of two, and lets the side of his head rest lazily on the wall. That smirk only grows more wicked. “Oh, so you want _your_ tongue in—”

A collective squeal rises up from the partiers congregated in the living room as the game of spin the bottle has now become a game of truth or dare, it seems. Instead of making out with a stranger, someone’s been dared to flash everyone. With a gasp of shock, you look away as a dude gets to his feet and starts fumbling with the fly of his pants.

Mary doesn’t look away.

“Do _you_ want to play?” you ask him, looking up at his face.

“Always, kitten.” Tearing his gaze from the flasher, he looks down at you with those gorgeous dark eyes of his, and he gives you a wink.

“Fine.” The weed and beer have made you more confident—perhaps stupidly so. “Let’s play.”

Mary’s face splits into a crooked grin—a wicked flashing of teeth that does very little to soothe your nerves—and his hand grabs yours. You barely have time to grab another beer before he’s yanking you towards the circle of partygoers that’s begun to crowd around the spinning bottle.

You think maybe Mary’s going to sit beside you, but instead, he elbows his way into the circle across from you, and sits cross-legged on the floor. The game continues without interruption, and everyone decides if they’d rather kiss the person the bottle lands on, tell a truth, or do a dare.

Most people pick dare.

In the five minutes it takes for your turn to arrive, you’ve seen a _lot_ of tits and ass from strangers. More than you’d ever care to see, really. You get the impression that these people aren’t exactly _creative_ when it comes to thinking up dares. Or they’re just really horny. Most of the dares involve getting naked or showing off body parts.

Finally, it’s your turn.

You swallow hard, pointedly avoiding Mary’s gaze, and give the bottle a twist. It spins and spins and spins in a seemingly endless loop. 

You chance a glimpse at Mary. Those dark eyes of his are hooded and staring at you with such an intensity, as if he’s reading every filthy thought you’ve ever had in your entire life and he’s imagining ways to sweetly torment you with them. Your stomach does a little somersault. Somehow, you just _know_ where the bottle’s going to land. Mary’s lip twists into a subtle, wicked smirk, and the bottle comes to a stop.

It’s pointed to the girl just to Mary’s left. 

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Mary arches an eyebrow at you, an unasked question lurking in the inky depths of his eyes. But now the girl is asking the question and your attention is diverted away from him.

“Truth or dare?”

“...Dare, I guess.” You make direct eye contact with Mary as you say it. You think he looks a little impressed, but it’s hard to tell.

The girl chews her bottom lip in thought. “Dare you to…” She gives you an impish grin. “Let us look through the pics on your phone for one minute.”

A collective “ooooh” rises up from the congregation and several pair of eager eyes fall on you. A hot blush crawls up your cheeks, and as you fish your phone from your pocket, unlock it, and hand it to her, you silently pray you deleted those nudes you took a couple of weeks ago just for fun.

As your darer scrolls through your picture gallery, Mary leans to look over her shoulder, occasionally flicking his eyes up at you and smirking. The minute seems to drag on forever, and you busy yourself with taking sips of your beer, but you can’t help anxiously watching as they go through all your photos.

“Oh my God,” giggles your darer, and she turns your phone around to show you. “Cute selfie but is that a fucking _dildo_??”

A cackle rises up from the crowd of people as you look at the picture. You’d taken it a couple of days ago but never posted it to your social media for this exact reason. Sitting on the dresser in the background is a large, silky purple dildo. Face hot and red now, you snatch away the phone, grumbling under your breath as you stuff it back into your pocket. 

“It’s my roommate’s,” you mumble, but no one hears you. 

Mary gives a snorting giggle.

The person to your left gives the bottle a spin and the game continues. Several shotgunned beers, flashed body parts, eaten teaspoons of mustard, and one extremely loud streak later, it’s Mary’s turn.

The bottle lands on you. Mary cocks his head to one side, his eyes patient but there’s an unspoken challenge there that makes your pulse leap with anticipation.

“Dare.” He says it without even waiting to be asked.

“Okay…” You think for a moment, then flash him a grin of your own. “Dare you to sing us a verse from your favorite song.”

This seems to have finally flapped the unflappable Mary. His intense, challenging gaze falters a bit, replaced with utter bewilderment. He blinks, and a subtle blush rises to his cheeks, barely visible beneath the lines of dried blood. A thrill of pride surges through at the thought that you managed to surprise him.

“And no cheating, Goore,” says the girl beside him, elbowing his ribs gently. She flashes him a smug smirk. “They said _sing_ , not growl. _”_

Mary casts her an irritated glower, before flicking his eyes back to you. For a moment, he contemplates, and his gaze holds yours the whole time. Someone turns down the music so that he can be heard better. With a clear of his throat, he closes his eyes, and begins singing.

 _I'm crucified_ _  
_ _Crucified like my savior_ _  
_ _Saintlike behavior_ _  
_ _A lifetime I prayed_

 _I'm crucified_ _  
_ _For the holy dimension_  
_Godlike ascension_ _  
_ Heavens away

A stunned silence follows this brief display. Everyone is staring at Mary with disbelief in their eyes, including you. Never would you have suspected that such an angelic voice could’ve come out of such a rough-looking guy. Several people clap, but Mary has eyes for only you. The intensity to his gaze fills you with both anxiety and elation. You’re unsure if there’s a punishment or a reward coming for you the next time your turn comes up.

You’re unsure which idea thrills you more.

The game continues, and a few uncreative rounds later, your spin finally selects Mary as your darer again.

He flashes you a mischievous grin, and your pulse spikes with adrenaline. By this point, you’ve had a couple more beers, and you’re really beginning to feel the effect. You’re a little braver, but only a little. A tiny, cowardly part of you wants to chicken out and pick truth, but Mary doesn’t even give you a choice.

“Dare you to make out with the hottest guy here.”

_Fuck._

Judging from the smug grin and the intense smolder to his eyes, he _knows_ he’s got you now. He cocks his head to one side, and his tongue pokes out to wet his lips, as if preparing himself for the inevitable.

Well, if he’s going to be _so_ insufferable about it.

Holding his gaze, you turn to the guy immediately to your left, lean in, and capture his lips in a searing kiss. He grunts in surprise, but at least he reciprocates. Several hoots and whistles rise up from the crowd as the kiss continues on for a minute or two. You briefly toy with the notion of sliding into the stranger’s lap, but decide this will suffice for now. After a moment, your eyes open and you meet Mary’s gaze.

That insufferably smug look on his face has utterly evaporated. He stares at you, his expression hovering somewhere between heartbroken and incredulous. Then that, too, dissolves, and he looks away with a scowl.

“I need some air,” he mutters, and he gets to his feet. 

Avoiding your gaze, he picks his way through the circle, and strides off. Guilt sinks its hot teeth into your stomach and you break away from your unsuspecting kissing victim.

“Mary, wait.”

With clumsy, drunken movements, you scramble to your feet, tripping only a little, and hurry after him. You find him out on the tiny balcony of the apartment, leaning on the railing and smoking a cigarette. Trying your best to be stealthy, you slip out onto the balcony. He doesn’t look up as you shyly approach the railing beside him.

“...I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Mary exhales a lungful of smoke, and casts you an unreadable glance out of the corner of his eye.

“For that, back there.” You frown. “I don’t know why I—“

“Forget about it.” He gives a shrug, turning his gaze back out to the glittering city stretching out before you, and takes another drag of his cigarette. “Got no fuckin’ reason to be mad, do I?”

Your heart sinks a little. He has a point, but you hate it anyway. Slowly, you shuffle a half step closer, until your arm lightly brushes against his, and look up at him. In your half-drunk state, you can’t find yourself to be ashamed of your ogling. He really is beautiful, even with lines of red dribbling down his face. The neon lights of the city below throw odd shadows across his features, highlighting the curve of his cheekbones, the crooked angularity to his nose, the definition of his brow. His lips look so soft and inviting. You find yourself studying them while biting your own.

“...It’s you, yanno,” you mumble quietly, rotating to lean your elbows on the railing. “I was just… I dunno, being stupid, I guess.” You look away from him, frowning at nothing in particular. “You know it’s you, that’s why you asked.”

“What’s me?” he asks, as he flicks the spent cigarette over the railing. With hooded eyes, he finally turns his head to look at you, and you just can’t resist anymore.

Wordlessly, you reach for his face and pull his lips down to meet yours. Obediently, he lets himself be pulled. He hums out a chuckle against your mouth, low and quiet. There’s some minor adjusting as he sidles closer, one hand sliding up to the back of your neck while the other yanks your hips against his, and his lips part in silent invitation. He tastes like beer and cigarettes and there’s some kind of unnameable metallic tang on his tongue, but holy _fuck_ do you need more.

A soft, desperate moan escapes you, immediately swallowed by his kiss, and he adjusts more, sliding one of his thighs between your legs. You grind yourself against him with a whine. His hands fall to your hips, squeezing you and guiding you just right on his thigh. For a moment or two, he seems content with this—your lips on his, his tongue in your mouth, your crotch grinding against his thigh. With a groan through clenched teeth, he breaks the kiss and brings his lips to your ear.

“Better tell me what it is you’re after, little lamb,” whispers Mary, as your hands fumble with the overly-large belt buckle at his waist. “Or else I ain’t gonna fuckin’ know.”

“Want you,” you mumble incoherently, whining as he gives the thigh you’re riding a bounce. “Fuck me, please. Please.”

“Mm…” He makes a show of considering your proposal, cocking his head to one side. He leans in a little, and you think that he’s going to kiss you again, to get you going, and take it a step further. Then his face splits into a wicked grin. 

“Nah.”

And he just _pulls away_.

You gasp in shock, your mouth hanging open in betrayal. As Mary Goore steps away from you, leaving you panting and needy and _utterly_ unsatisfied, he gives a little cackle. So _this_ is your punishment for disobeying his dare. God, what an asshole! 

At the sliding glass door, Mary pauses, flashes you a shit-eating grin accompanied with a two-fingered salute in farewell, and disappears back inside.

**_What the fuck._ **

**Author's Note:**

> filthy-rat.tumblr.com


End file.
